


Bottoms Up

by lolo313



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Spanking, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:19:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1434844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why did it have to be the tavern? Of all the excuses in the world, why did Gaius have to always choose the tavern?"</p>
<p>When Arthur catches wind of Merlin ducking work to drink at the tavern, he decides a new punishment is in store for his good-for-nothing manservant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bottoms Up

**Author's Note:**

> A word on the dubious consent found herein--yes, what Arthur does to Merlin is without his permission, though Merlin eventually ends up enjoying himself (NB arousal is NOT consent), but the lines are a bit blurred by the end. So I tagged it just to be safe.

          Why did it have to be the tavern? Of all the excuses in the world, why did Gaius have to always choose the tavern? Merlin’s feet beat out a staccato madness as he bounded through the citadel, taking the stairs two and three at a time. As he swung sharply round a corner he nearly collided with a scullery maid, arms laden with clothes to be laundered. He barely managed a _‘cuse me!_ before scrambling down the hall. Even though he was already late, years of hard wrought experience had taught Merlin that every second counted, especially when it came to Arthur.

          Merlin knew he was in trouble. Lunch should have been served nearly an hour ago; the kitchen staff would have adorned a silver tray with roast chicken, or else a hefty slice of smoked salmon, garnished with verdant salad, a hunk of bread, some cheese, and perhaps a sliced apple or two. It’d have waited on the counter for Merlin’s arrival, for him to whisk it to Arthur’s chambers, where he’d attend the Prince during his meal, cutting and serving and wiping as needed. But, of course, Merlin had never come. One of the cooks, assuming Arthur had gone out riding, or simply lacked an appetite that day, would have repurposed the meal for some other lord or minister, handing the platter off to a maid to be cleaned. So Arthur, ravenous, would naturally blame his lack of sustenance on Merlin.

          Not that he didn’t have a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why he was late. He did, but he couldn’t very well tell Arthur that, completely by accident, he’d let a pixie into the castle, who then proceeded to possess one of Morgana’s gowns and haunt the lower town. This, being what Merlin would call an emergency, had taken priority over adding a few inches to Arthur’s waistline. Once the pixie had been cornered, exorcised, and destroyed, and Morgana’s dress collected and handed off to an unsuspecting servant, the morning had bled into the afternoon and Merlin was decidedly late.

          Echoes off the cobblestones heralded his approach as he sprinted across the courtyard, bee-lining for Arthur’s chambers. Maybe, he’d hoped, just _maybe_ Arthur wouldn’t have noticed his absence yet, perhaps he’d been too absorbed in training or some princely matters of state. There existed still a thin sliver of hope; Merlin grasped at it as if drowning. As he soared up the front steps a door swung open and Gaius, haggard but undeniably relieved to see him, motioned Merlin to stop.

          “Is it done? Did you—”

          “Dead,” Merlin, bent double, rested his hands on his knees as he gulped down mouthfuls of air, “pixie…dead…must…Arthur…” A stitch sliced up his side, winding bout his ribs. He heaved and gestured vaguely up the castle walls in the general direction of his master’s chambers.

          “The Prince came looking for you a few moments ago.” Merlin gazed up in desperation, saw the concern wrinkled about Gaius’s eyes. “I couldn’t think what else to tell him other than that you were at—”

          “—the tavern,” Merlin intoned in time with Gaius. His knees wobbled beneath him as he groaned long and low, deep in his throat.

          Arthur hated the tavern. Or, more specifically, Arthur hated Merlin _at_ the tavern. It’s not that he was a teetotaler; when in his cups Arthur kept apace of all his knights (perhaps with the exception of Gwaine) and he was never one to turn down a jovial drink amongst friends. No, Arthur had nothing against drinking, as long as Merlin wasn’t the one doing it. It started off innocently enough, Gaius, when push came to shove, offering the only excuse that came to mind. And for the first few times Arthur didn’t seem to mind, at least, no more than any Prince minded an oft absent, more-tardy-than-punctual servant. And seeing how well it worked, Gaius hadn’t thought to vary his lies when necessary demanded them. But, gradually, Merlin had developed a reputation about the citadel. Suddenly he couldn’t be trusted to serve Arthur’s wine during feasts, lest a libatious madness overtake him and he make a fool of himself in front of important guests. Maids and stable boys sniggered behind their hands, miming a drunk’s stumbling step whenever Merlin passed by (but only when they felt he was safely out of earshot). Even the knights believed, going so far as to offer to walk him to his chambers whenever they crossed paths at night, assuming Merlin was three sheets to the wind.

          Merlin didn’t even drink that much, not really. On one hand he could count the number of times he’d been proper drunk; once, with Will, when they’d downed a pinched bottle of wine back in Ealdor, another, shortly after his arrival in Camelot, when he’d snuck out at night to Gwen’s and they’d stayed up late, outdoing the others’ impressions of the royal family, and finally one fated Beltane celebration where Merlin had tried (and failed) to impress the crowd with cartwheels. The resulting bump on his head, coupled with the demons splitting his skull the next morning, were more than enough to put him off of drink for quite some time. When occasion called for it he’d raise a glass, might even sip it, but Merlin couldn’t remember the last time he emptied a chalice, let alone refilled one.

          Try telling that to Arthur. More than anyone the Prince was convinced of Merlin’s dipsomania, certain he possessed an inconsolable weakness for any and all liquors and spirits. Though at first sympathetic, any compassion Arthur felt he quickly disavowed as Merlin’s purported presence at the lower town’s watering hole became commonplace. He grew irritable, concerned, then enraged, his face coloring a deeper shade of red each time he heard the now banal alibi. Was it Merlin’s fault Camelot seemed to attract nothing but assassins and arcane creatures of magic, requiring his prompt and undivided attention? Try as he might, Arthur would hear none of it, promising, in that basilic, threatening way Princes possess, that the next time Arthur caught wind of Merlin dodging work to slip off to the tavern, he would be sorry.

          And it seemed that time had come at last. Merlin could not help but curse Gaius under his breath as he straightened up, dashing inside the citadel with renewed vigor. Whatever Arthur had in store for Merlin, dallying would in no way improve his bruised humor. He sped through the chateau, stumbling up stairs and streaking round corners. Though his breath came in tiny, tight-knitted gasps he did not stop, but barreled through the door to Arthur’s chambers; the hinges cackled and sang as they danced, the frame rattling as the door slammed against the wall with enough force to chip. With a practiced grace, cool as spring water, Arthur looked up from the parchment spread out on his desk before him.

          “Ah, Merlin. How nice of you to stop by.” Before Merlin could speak—he gaped and sputtered like a fish thrown on land—Arthur bent his head back down, lifting his quill, beaded heavy with a black teardrop, and scratched his signature on the paper. The sharp tip clinked against the glass of the inkwell when it dropped back in. “You’re flush. Enjoy one too many, perhaps?”

          “Arthur,” Merlin began, but words cost air, and his lungs clung to what little they had, their miser hands sharp-clawed and obdurate. His speech was halting, punctuated by deep, desperate inhalations. “I—wasn’t—”

          “Enough!” Arthur slammed his fist down; the papers and glass jars trembled. He rose and seemed to grow immeasurable large, swelling with ire, yet still moving with the controlled ease of a Prince, marrying rage and poise in that way only nobility can. “How many, how many times have I told you Merlin?” Arthur stalked out from behind his desk, voice tight and carefully reined, a thin veil of anger simmering beneath his words like water brought to the edge of boil. He made for his bed, gesturing with two fingers for Merlin to follow; as if tugged by a string he obeyed, stepping forward. “Do I mistreat you? Have I been anything but kind?” Arthur spun on a heel, leveling a finger at Merlin’s face, daring him to contradict. Though sorely tempted, Merlin fought the urge to be truculent. Arthur collapsed on the corner of his bed, arms thrown up in exasperation. “I’m the perfect master, and look how you repay me. One thing, the one thing I told you not to do…” Arthur trailed off, a bewildering scoff ghosting from out his lips. He shook his head, chuckling despite himself. “What am I to do with you?”

          “Arthur, I’m…I’m sorry—”

          “Oh you’re sorry, are you?” Merlin gazed down at the floor, shuffled from one foot to the other. He was accustomed to Arthur speaking to him like am imbecile, but not like a child. His face burned hot with shame, his fingers fidgeted, clasped behind his back.

          “I’m sorry, I promise, it won’t happen again.”

          “You’re damn right it won’t!” Though unspoken, the tilt of Arthur’s voice demanded Merlin’s attention. From behind heavy lashes he glanced up, eyes crossing Arthur’s, steady and unblinking. “I told you the next time I caught you at the tavern—”

          “But I wasn’t—” Arthur held up a hand to silence Merlin.

          “I said the next time you’d be sorry. So, now the choice is yours. You can either spend two days in the stocks…” The bottom of Merlin’s stomach fell out, crashing somewhere around his ankles. The stocks were insufferably bad. As the hours dripped by the muscles in Merlin’s back would calcify, stiff as tempered steel, while his tendons sharpened till they were likely to slice his legs in twain. Chaffed raw, the skin of his wrists would take days to heal. The sun would beat down with relentless heat till his clothes and hair clung, sodden and putrid, to his body, mouth long since gone dry. And the townspeople, normally so kind, loved to distract themselves from their quotidian misfortunes by latching on to someone else’s. Merlin just wished their aim were poorer. And today being market day, the produce would be fresh. Less would be thrown, most not wishing to waist food, but those pieces that connected would not mush and squish as the rotten variety would; Merlin envisioned himself, peppered with bruises and welts. An hour in the stocks was torture. Two days was unimaginable.

          “Or…?” Merlin asked hesitantly, too wary to be hopeful. Arthur fisted a handful of Merlin’s tunic, pulling him down onto his lap. Caught by surprise Merlin barely had time to thrust his hands out in front of him, palms slapping the floor, tips of his feet barely ghosting the stones as he landed with a _humph_ across Arthur’s legs. When his senses regained their equilibrium, Merlin squirmed against Arthur’s thighs, trying to right himself. “What are you doing?” There was precious little leverage to begin with, and then Arthur wrapped an arm around Merlin’s middle, trapping him in place. Strong fingers held his thigh, their grip biting the flesh through the fabric of Merlin’s britches. “Arthur, stop it, this isn’t funny!”

          The sting of the blow to his backside quieted his petulant whines as he stilled. The pain came after, like the blossoming of a burn across a hand foolishly gripping a boiling cauldron. By degree the flesh of Merlin’s bum tingled and pricked with heightened sensation, Arthur’s meaty palm resting on the soft globe of flesh. Suddenly, Merlin became aware of the proximity of their bodies, the intimacy of their touch. He felt warm, his clothes stuffy and stifling. He wanted to run back to his room, or else to the woods, to throw himself into a pool of water. He wanted to drown.

          “You were warned.” Arthur’s voice had lost its hint of anger, grown cold and quiet; Merlin strained to hear. His tone offered no succor or sympathy. “So now you choice: the stocks or,” Arthur rubbed his hand to accentuate his meaning, “this.” For a long moment Merlin felt suspended between two, gaping precipices, doomed to fall at the lightest misstep. The stocks were a familiar torment, conventional but awful. This…this was foreign and new, yet still called forth memories of a time back in Ealdor, of a broken jug, a too-snide remark, his mother’s exasperation, a wooden spoon clutched in her hand, of tears streaking Merlin’s cheeks still chubby with youth. But many years separated the man he was now from the boy he’d been, a chasm of time he’d thought to never cross again.  Yet here he was.

          “Well?” Arthur balanced on the edge of impatience. Merlin, swallowing the lump in his throat, reasoned that whatever he was to now endure could not possibly last more than an hour, certainly not two days.

          “Alright.” Head hung low, Merlin’s whisper was lost in the fold of Arthur’s knee. Arthur bounced his feet, jostling his servant till he lifted his face from the floor.

          “What was that?”

          “I said fine, this, I choose…this.” Merlin could not bring himself to speak the word, still unbelieving that as a man grown he could be reduced to such infantile humiliation. Though he fought valiantly, he could not contain the flush rising to his cheeks. Arthur adjusted beneath him, tugged at Merlin’s body to better secure him across his lap. One arm held him in place, while his hand roamed the curve of Merlin’s ass, fingers running over the seat of his pants as if brushing off bits of stray lint. Merlin shivered at his own vulnerability, at the brassiness of Arthur’s touch. When at last his hand lifted in the air Merlin sipped in a breath through gritted teeth to steel himself against the coming blow.

          He was woefully unprepared.

          The slap from earlier had been to get Merlin’s attention, more bark than bite. Now, as Arthur’s hand connected with his tender backside, Merlin realized the brunt of his master’s strength. Despite himself he yelped at the force of it, needles digging into his muscles as Arthur drew his hand back. Not even a breath separated the blows, which rained down like sword strokes, swift and cutting. As in battle, Arthur’s aim proved true, his hand slapping against the lower half of Merlin’s ass with cruel precision, alternating from side to side. Arthur peppered Merlin’s cheeks, the ringing _smacks_ reverberating off the chamber walls.

          Arthur beat away relentlessly, wearing down Merlin’s resistance. From where they bit into Arthur’s boot his nails left deep crescents in the leather as Merlin struggled to maintain what little composure he could in such a position. Though he ground his teeth together Merlin could not silence the tiny yelps and whimpers that threatened to escape as he squirmed beneath Arthur’s incessant onslaught. It was then that a particularly devastating problem presented itself. As his body was naturally want to do, his pelvis ground down as much as possible, hips moving against Arthur’s shifting thighs, in an attempt to avoid the worst of his punishment. But splayed and held as he was, his groin could not help but rub against Arthur’s leg, hard and unyielding. As blood rushed to his face in abashed horror, Merlin felt himself hardening at the friction, tumescent bulge straining against the stitching of his trousers. He pushed up on to the balls of his feet so as to relieve the pressure, but after only two smacks of Arthur’s rapid hand he was unable to resist the urge to coil away, flattened once more on the Prince’s lap. Before he could think better of it, Merlin shot a hand out behind him, draped over his ass to shield himself. Without missing a beat Arthur grabbed his wrist and tugged the arm up Merlin’s back—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to know Arthur would permit no such foolishness—and pinned it beneath the arm that already held him.

          “Feeling sorry, are you Merlin?” Arthur chuckled to himself, not stopping for a second, hand slapping against the sore mounds of Merlin’s ass. “Maybe,” a hand fell hard, “next time,” another, harder still, “you’ll think,” Merlin yelped, skin stinging painfully, “before,” Arthur tightened his hold on Merlin, who now squirmed pitifully, “you go,” a whimpered _please stop_ , “to—the—tavern!” The final three blows fell in resolute, rapid succession, the sound resounding around the room. Merlin trembled on Arthur’s knee, raspy breaths drawn through quivering lips. A hand on his shoulder and one on his thigh pivoted him upright till he stood on uncertain and shaky legs before Arthur. He made as if to twist away, but Arthur caught his wrists and shook him like a freshly laundered shirt till he stilled. Merlin blinked away the pinprick beginnings of tears.

          “We’re nowhere near done yet, believe you me.” Arthur’s fingers made for the strings of Merlin’s britches. In a vain attempt, Merlin guarded the knot with weak hands—Arthur batted him away, darted a warning glance. With considerable strength of will Merlin tried to push away his arousal, all to no avail. As Arthur tugged the laces free he slipped his hands within the hem, his nails cool against the flushed, heated flesh. In one deft motion Arthur pulled down his pants, the fabric whispering to the hairs on Merlin’s legs till they stood on end. His face burned as his cock bobbed at its sudden liberty, the head red and heavy. It bounced in time with Merlin’s pulse, wagging an embarrassed _hello_.

          Seconds ticked into minutes as Arthur drank in the sight of Merlin, rigid cock alert, staring him down with defiant attention. A soft chuckle rolled about Arthur’s throat; he _hmmed_ to himself with bemused curiosity. Merlin could not bring himself to catch his eye, could only bore holes into the stone floor, wishing more than anything to crawl beneath a rock and die. To be so exposed, to feel so helpless, the tenderest, most vulnerable parts of himself prey to Arthur’s mercy; his eyes fogged and blurred, frustrated tears chocking his vision, his face hued deep shades of scarlet. Arthur stood and in one swift motion disenfranchised Merlin of his tunic. Now he stood, bare-chested, naked before his Prince. Arthur sat and pulled Merlin back down across his lap, britches pooled round his ankles in brown puddles. Without comment Arthur grabbed Merlin’s cock, tugging it back to nestle it between the snowy plains of Merlin’s thighs. He gasped at the touch, at the unabashed authority, feeling more like a piece of armor positioned for polishing. As Arthur resettled, the scruff of his trousers rubbed the length of Merlin’s cock; despite himself he moaned, quiet and high like a lady-in-waiting diddled by a knight. At Arthur’s barking laughter Merlin felt his cheeks flame.

          Without the slightest hint of warning the barrage recommenced. But now, without the threadbare safety of his pants Merlin felt the true bite of Arthur’s blows on his backside. His skin burned, the heat spreading down his thighs and up the small of his back as Arthur’s hand rained down upon him. The cool metal of Arthur’s ring, each time it kissed his enflamed flesh, made Merlin shiver. He felt utterly out of control, a distant observer of his own body’s reactions; like a child he kicked and squirmed, begging pleas tumbling from his mouth without any thought to formulate them. But his entreaties fell on deaf ears—Arthur beat on relentlessly till Merlin’s bum glowed red as a tomato caught in the noonday sun. As if they were strips of leather the skin on Merlin’s ass seemed to dry and wrinkle together, all softness torn from them. Tears streamed freely now, sliding down the bridge of his nose to pool on the floor beneath him. His voice quivered and wobbled, lost beneath the thunderous _smack smack smack_ of Arthur’s hands on him.

          When at last Arthur paused, hand cupped on the radiant curve of Merlin’s behind, Merlin was gasping lungfuls of air, exhaling in long, blubbering sighs, face wet-streaked and red.  Like a girl with a kitten Arthur petted Merlin as his body quaked, trembling like a leaf in late autumn. Blood pounded in Merlin’s ears, the floor, though mere inches away, blurred like stones submerged in a stream. The muscles of Merlin’s backside cried out with needle-sharp voices, his skin aflame, radiating heat. Despite everything Merlin strained against the side of Arthur’s leg, cock nearly rubbed raw from all his thrashing about.

          Focused as he was on reassembling his body, Merlin did not notice when Arthur removed his hand from his ass, did not hear the subtle sounds of Arthur’s mouth moving over his finger, tongue lavishly coating it, did not notice the wet _pop_ as it jumped free. But when the slick digit circled the tight ring of his asshole, cool against the warmth of his abused cheeks, Merlin gasped out a shivering breath.

          “Easy,” Arthur whispered as he teased the tip of his finger, just the crest of his nail, inside Merlin. “Just try to relax.”

          Had he been in better possession of his faculties, Merlin would have laughed at such a suggestion, for how was he expected to relax as Arthur eased a wet finger against the tight resistant of his anus? When the first knuckle slipped inside Merlin’s stomach flipped, a groan pushed through gritted teeth. Despite Arthur’s saliva the skin of his finger felt rough and fiery as it forced its way ever forward. Merlin drew rapid breaths, nostrils flared, and screwed his eyes shut. And then Arthur was buried deep as he could go, knuckles of his hand brushing against the cleft of Merlin’s ass, finger submerged within his body. Arthur waited, breath slow and even. The offending digit felt foreign, alien and wrong; Merlin wanted nothing more than to recoil and flee from it, to curl up somewhere till his body felt his own again. But slowly, by degrees, the muscles clenched around Arthur relaxed, easing themselves to make room for this new sensation. Arthur gave an exploratory wiggle; Merlin, shame-faced, moaned at the movement.

          Arthur titled forward and spit, the wet glob landing just above Merlin’s hole—it slid down to pool around Arthur’s finger, which he pulled out slightly, letting the running saliva coat it anew. And then it was back inside him, worming itself around like a thing alive. Merlin felt his body, his muscles, give at the pokes and prods. Arthur moved in wild circles, back and forth, like someone awoken in the night who, arms outstretched in the darkness, searches for something painfully hidden within reach.  When he found it, the tiny, tight bundle just within Merlin’s body, no larger than a nut, Merlin trembled and let out a long, need-laden groan. With a satisfied laugh under his breath, Arthur began pushing and kneading the mass, experimenting with pressure and angles. By now Merlin could neither care about nor contain the sounds tumbling from his slack-jawed mouth, a chorus of breathy whines and moans, endless repetitions of _oh god, oh god, please_. From where it rubbed against Arthur’s pants leg, Merlin’s cock left a dark stain as it leaked onto the fabric. With every stroke of Arthur’s finger Merlin rocked and lifted his hips, wishing to swallow more of him, all of him, to lose himself in the rolling waves of ecstasy crashing over his body. When at last Arthur pulled away, Merlin pressed onto the tips of his toes to follow it, hoping to prolong his pleasure as long as possible, till the finger finally slipped free. Then Arthur was standing and setting Merlin on his feet, arms looped beneath his shoulders to keep his trembling legs from collapsing beneath him.

          “ _Shh, shh_ ,” Arthur cooed, a fearfully-soft hand cupping Merlin’s face. His thumb rubbed at his wet cheeks, wiping away tear streaks. Merlin’s body shook, he felt as if he would die in Arthur’s arms. As his legs winced and flexed beneath him the skin of his behind tugged taunt against the abuse it had suffered, the flesh hot, a shade of angry red. Yet still Merlin’s cock strained against itself, the tip dribbling a limpid bead onto the toe of Arthur’s boot. “You were very brave Merlin, so very brave.” Arthur’s voice dripped with gentle affection, like a mother consoling a child as she works a splinter from out his finger. Merlin collapsed against the strength of Arthur’s chest, chin tucked over his shoulder, and wrapped his arms around his Prince. Velvet whispers brushed against his ear; Arthur murmured tender words of encouragement, his fingers stroking down the length of Merlin’s sweat-slick back.

          “Now, now, none of that.” Arthur straightened Merlin out, held him at arm’s length, a curl on his lips like a tulip bloom. Hands on shoulders, wrists turned, Arthur walked Merlin to a corner of the room, pressing him against the stone till his nose nestled into the dusty crevice. A chill clung to the wall and as the heated head of Merlin’s cock brushed against it he shivered. Nimble fingers took his wrists, pulled his arms up to place Merlin’s hands on his head. Arthur stepped back, draped his eyes over the sight of Merlin, erect as a statue mislaid in the room. “I was in the middle of some important work when you interrupted me. Stay here while I finish.” No answer was expected. Arthur stalked back to his desk; Merlin heard the scrape of the chair legs on the floor, the creak of wood as Arthur settled himself, the scratch of quill on paper.

          Though he strained his ears, Merlin could scarcely make out the tap of the inkwell, the rustle of parchments. The blood pounded through his ears, yet he listened for footsteps in the hall, the telltale sounds announcing a messenger, some knight or maid come calling to the Prince’s chambers. Such iniquity, ass red and splayed before unsuspecting eyes, struck Merlin as terribly cruel— _would Arthur do something so mean_? But his fears proved unfounded; no knock fell upon the door, the hinges slept undisturbed. At last there came the sounds of Arthur rising and moving across the room, the quiet footstalls of a trained huntsman’s step. Hands lowered Merlin’s arms, turned him round, and led him back to Arthur’s bed. For a moment, one terrifying second, Merlin worried Arthur would set him over his lap once more. Some fear must have shown on his face, some unconscious flinch alerting the Prince, for Arthur hushed him, stroked his arm.

          “Nothing to worry about, we’re done now. You were very good...” Arthur sat, the sheets rustling beneath his weight, mattress dipping. He tugged gently on Merlin’s hand and brought him to sit upon his knee. Such an unrelenting surface ached against the rawness of Merlin’s backside, but still uncertain of what was to come, Merlin said nothing. Arthur hooked an arm through Merlin’s, pulled them back till he rested against his chest.

           “…very good…” Arthur murmured almost to himself, his hand roaming Merlin’s chest. His fingers, warmed from earlier, felt like pokers thrust in the fire—wherever they touched Merlin felt branded. A nail ghosted over a nipple, which pebbled and grew hot, a coal set among the niveous expanse of his torso. Lower still, Arthur trailed his hand over the flat of Merlin’s stomach, ruffling the wisps of coarse, dark hair as he moved down to the forest above Merlin’s cock. While waiting he’d gone soft, but now, as Arthur wrapped his fingers round him and tugged, sure and demanding, he swelled once more, engorged with desire. With deft strokes calloused fingers grated the thin, sensitive skin. Over the bumps of veins his hand pulled and played, the metal of his ring a cold contrast to his burning flesh. Merlin bucked at the touch, desperate, but Arthur held him fast, kept his back pressed to his chest despite his struggles. Head thrown back on Arthur’s shoulder Merlin loosed long, throaty moans, tongue pressed hard against his bottom teeth. A thumb ran rough circles round the head of Merlin’s cock, spreading the clear, viscous beginning of cum that leaked forth. And then the hand was gone, Merlin thrusting up at empty air.

          “Please,” the words were a struggle, mouth sluggish, head drunk, yet Merlin begged nonetheless, “please, Arthur.”

          “Promise me.” The barest hint of a finger, just the tip, ran up the underside of Merlin’s cock. “Promise me you won’t go to the tavern anymore.”

          “Anything, yes, just please—”

          “Promise me.” A nail dug in, just above the slit at the head, not too hard, but hard enough.

          “I promise, I promise, I’ll never ever go again, please, Arthur I promise I’ll be good!”

          It only took a few tugs and Merlin came, long, ropey strings of white shooting onto his stomach, matting themselves in the hairs there. Arthur stroked the sticky pools, fingers drawing lazy circles, but Merlin was so very far away he could not be bothered to notice. The world had gone dark for a moment, eyes rolled up into the back of his head as his body had shuddered and convulsed; only now did his breath return to him, heart slowing. Arthur wiped his hand on the sheets and Merlin realized, almost as an afterthought, that he would have to change them before bed this evening. But that was many hours away still, so far from the here and now. With a nudge Arthur made Merlin to stand. Though he swayed at first he was able to keep his feet beneath him, and when he wobbled round Arthur was handing him a bundle of his clothes, wrinkled and slightly wet from where his fingers gripped them. Without comment he dressed, each layer returning to him the years he had so recently shed. Once more he possessed a man’s body, burdened by a man’s shame. Arthur was already seated by the time Merlin finished, head bent over some treaty or report. He spoke without looking up.

          “I won’t be needing you till dinner. Why don’t you take some time to recover?” Merlin nodded dumbly, then, realizing Arthur could not see him, mumbled out a quiet _thank you_. But as he reached the door Arthur called to him once more.

          “Merlin?” He turned, met Arthur’s stare. His face was solid stone. “Remember…you promised.” There wasn’t the faintest hint of a grin, but something about the Prince’s eyes, some twinkle, the slightest arch of an eyebrow, made Merlin suspected that Arthur hoped for nothing more than a streak of recidivism. With a nod and an effected bow, Merlin left.

          He did not make for his chambers, did not climb the stairs towards the rooms he shared with Gaius. His feet beat a path out of the citadel, across the courtyard, which shone with the afternoon sun. Without thought he made for the lower town, carried by some unconscious whim. He followed the winding streets, his purportedly oft-trod path, till the tavern loomed low and squat before him. As he stepped inside the heady scent of hops wafted over him; his knees knocked. The barman nodded as he approached.

          “Afternoon. You look like you could use a stiff drink.”

          For the first time in his life Merlin couldn’t agree more.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you so so much for taking the time to read my work. Any and all thoughts are very much appreciated.
> 
> P.S. If anyone draws me some Merlin spanking fanart, I'll probably love you forever and write you a 'thank you' drabble.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Bottoms Up - written by lolo313](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2570342) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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